But Edith felt them not; for now a sleep,
Solemnly beautiful, a stillness deep,

Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow,
And mantling up his stately head in woe,

"Thou'rt passing hence," he sang, that warrior old,

In sounds like those by plaintive waters roll'd.

"Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side, And the hunter's hearth away;

For the time of flowers, for the summer's pride, Daughter! thou canst not stay.

Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home,
Where the skies are ever clear;
The corn-month's golden hours shall come,
But they shall not find thee here.

And we shall miss thy voice, my bird!
Under our whispering pine;

Music shall 'midst the leaves be heard,
But not a song like thine.

A breeze that roves o'er stream and hili,
Telling of winter gone,

Hath such sweet falls-yet caught we still
A farewell in its tone.

But thou, my bright one! thou shalt be
Where farewell sounds are o'er ;
Thou, in the eyes thou lov'st, shalt see
No fear of parting more.

The mossy grave thy tears have wet,
And the wind's wild moanings by,
Thou with thy kindred shalt forget,
'Midst flowers-not such as die.

The shadow from thy brow shall melt,
The sorrow from thy strain,

But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt
Our hearts shall thirst in vain.

Dim will our cabin be, and lone,
When thou, its light, art fled;

Yet hath thy step the pathway shown
Unto the happy dead.

And we will follow thee, our guide!
And join that shining band;

Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side-
Go to the better land!"

The song had ceased-the listeners caught no

breath,

That lovely sleep had melted into death.

6

THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS.

PART I.

'MIDST Tivoli's luxuriant glades,
Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades,
Where dwelt, in days departed long,
The sons of battle and of song,
No tree, no shrub its foliage rears,
But o'er the wrecks of other years
Temples and domes, which long have been
The soil of that enchanted scene.

There the wild fig tree and the vine
O'er Hadrian's mouldering villa twine;
The cypress, in funereal grace,
Usurps the vanish'd column's place;
O'er fallen shrine, and ruin'd frieze,
The wall-flower rustles in the breeze;
Acanthus-leaves the marble hide,
They once adorn'd in sculptured pride;
And nature hath resumed her throne
O'er the vast works of ages flown.

Was it for this that many a pile,
Pride of Illissus and the Nile,
To Anio's banks the image lent
Of each imperial monument'

Now Athens weeps her scatter'd fanes,
Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains;
And the proud fabrics Hadrian rear'd
From Tiber's vale have disappear'd.
We need no prescient sibyl there,
The doom of grandeur to declare,
Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb,
Reveals some oracle of Time:
Each relic utters Fate's decree,
The future as the past shall be.

Halls of the dead! in Tiber's vale, Who now shall tell your lofty tale? Who trace the high patrician's dome, The bard's retreat, the hero's home? When moss-clad wrecks alone record, There dwelt the world's departed lord! In scenes where verdure's rich array Still sheds young beauty o'er decay, And sunshine, on each glowing hill, 'Midst ruins finds a dwelling still.

Sunk is thy palace, but thy tomb, Hadrian hath shared a prouder doom, Though vanish'd with the days of old Its pillars of Corinthian mould; And the fair forms by sculpture wrought, Each bodying some immortal thought, Which o'er that temple of the dead, Serene, but solemn beauty shed, Have found, like glory's self, a grave In Time's abyss or Tiber's wave:

Yet dreams more lofty and more fair,
Than art's bold hand hath imaged e'er,
High thoughts of many a mighty mind,
Expanding when all else declined,
In twilight years, when only they
Recall'd the radiance pass'd away,
Have made that ancient pile their home,
Fortress of freedom and of Rome.

There he, who strove in evil days,
Again to kindle glory's rays,
Whose spirit sought a path of light,
For those dim ages far too bright,
Crescentius long maintain'd the strife,
Which closed but with its martyr's life,
And left the imperial tomb a name,
A heritage of holier fame.

There closed De Brescia's mission high,
From thence the patriot came to die;
And thou, whose Roman soul the last,
Spoke with the voice of ages past,
Whose thoughts so long from earth hath fled,
To mingle with the glorious dead,
That 'midst the world's degenerate race,
They vainly sought a dwelling-place,
Within that house of death didst brood
O'er visions to thy ruin woo'd.
Yet worthy of a brighter lot,
Rienzi! be thy faults forgot!
For thou, when all around thee lay
Chain'd in the slumbers of decay;
So sunk each heart, that mortal eye
Had scarce a tear less for liberty;